Maddie Wood

Old Man Bradbery

In the park by my house is an old maple tree. It stands silent and stooped with its branches twisting around itself. In front of the maple is a bench. The bench is covered with the rites of Time: scratches, cracks, and a directory of anonymous initials. It is a rather secluded spot; off to the side of the swings, walkways, and people. I would have spent my entire life without noticing the magic of this place if it weren’t for Old Man Bradbery.

Old Man Bradbery came to that bench every morning and simply sat there, staring off into space. When my friends and I would pass him on our way to school, we would snicker behind our hands at him. With his round, balding head and water, green eyes. Bradbery looked every bit a confused old man.

“Why doesn’t he feed the squirrels and pigeons while he sits there?” we asked ourselves. “Why doesn’t he read a book or do crossword puzzles?” One day, we decided to find out. We dropped behind some bushes nearby and peeked out. The branches framed him stooped there, his head slightly cocked. Somebody suggested that one of us should ask if he was lost. After much whispered debate, I was chosen to go. Reluctantly, I slid out from the bushes and stood up on the path. I looked back at the bushes and saw hands shooing me on. Glaring at them, I turned up the path as if just taking a stroll. I glanced at Old Man Bradbery and nervously walked up to the bench. I sat down next to Bradbery, but he didn’t look over at me. I coughed pointedly, but he continued to ignore me. Finally, I continued with my script.

“Are you lost, old man?” I asked him. He turned to me with a smile.

“Lost? Why no, I’m not. Are you?” He had a dry, papery voice that reminded me of the leaves above us.

“Um, no,” I answered. I shifted uncomfortably. Why had we thought this was so funny? Why did I have to be the one to go anyway? “You look lost,” I added dumbly.

“Is that so?” he smiled again and looked back ahead. “Well, I’m just thinking.” There was a long silence and I was just about to say good-bye when he continued. “Have you ever heard trees talk, boy?”

“Um, not really.” The mystery was solved. He was crazy.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Trees have so much to say if only people would learn to understand.” Bradbery reached around and patted the maple fondly. “Do you know how old this tree is?”

“No, I don’t.” I now wished desperately for my friends to call me over.

“It is the oldest tree in the park,” said Bradbery. “Even older than me. Trees live an incredibly long time. It’s no wonder they’re so much wiser than us. And what amazing lives they lead!”

I smirked. I could think of a few things more exciting than a tree. Old Man Bradbery caught my look and chuckled.

“If you look at them merely as plants, they will never mean anything to you. That is why I look at them as examples.” Bradbery nudged a tiny buttercup with his shoe. “Trees start out like all of us: small, weak, impressionable. As sprouts they must endure every kind of danger with nothing but sheer will to live. But trees have patience and eventually they grow to become Rulers of the Wood, stronger than any of us.”

I was genuinely listening now. He didn’t sound so crazy anymore and I was acutely aware of the tree’s tall presence behind me.

“When humans are given strength, they have an awful tendency to abuse it. They forget what it is like to be a weak sprout. Trees use their strength to protect the creatures around them. They allow birds, and squirrels, and mice to nest in their branches. They feed hungry animals, clear the air, and enrich the soil. They live their lives as guardians and ask nothing in return for their help.”

I glanced up and noticed that Old Man Bradbery’s green eyes didn’t look as watery up close. Instead, they simply looked light and gentle.

“Even the way they grow is a testament to how they live. They love to throw their branches in the breeze and feel what winds the wide world has sent them. They reach to catch clouds and peer over each other’s heads to the horizon. And yet their roots burrow deep into the ground as well. They are connected with each other through the complicated veins of their origin. To be neither confined to the sky nor grounded on land. What better life is there?” Old Man Bradbery sighed and sat back against the bench. He looked over at me. “Thank you very much for listening to my ramblings. I hope that I haven’t made you late for school?”

“Not at all, sir,” I replied, slipping off the bench. “Have a good day.” He waved to me absently as I walked away. When I returned to my friends they sat up, grinning.

“What’d he tell you, his life story?” they laughed. As we walked to school they promised never to send me to him again. Even though I laughed with them, I always remembered his words. Eventually I noticed he had stopped going to his spot and the bench sat empty as I passed it. So sometimes I go there now on my own. Usually I just sit there and think my own thoughts. But every once in a while I catch what must be the voice of the tree, and I recall the words of Old Man Bradbery.